Dirty Fighting
by SailorChibi
Summary: When a criminal employs an underhanded method of fighting with Sherlock, John does his best to offer comfort: both physically and to Sherlock's wounded pride. (i.e. the one where Sherlock gets kicked in the balls in front of NSY). Johnlock one-shot


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock.  
**A/N:** This was a commission for an anon who wanted Sherlock getting kicked in the crotch in front of NSY, with a dose of Doctor John giving some comfort. Being that I am not male, I can only hope I've adequately conveyed what a blow to that region feels like. You can find me on tumblr under the name tsuki-chibi so come follow me!

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John knows that he will never get tired of watching Sherlock Holmes, particularly when the man is in the middle of one of his deductions. Sherlock is all grace in those moments, hands flying as he gesticulates wildly as though no one around him will be able to understand unless he sketches it out, dark curls falling in his eyes because he needs a haircut but keeps putting it off for the sake of cases. Personally, John thinks it's far more likely that Sherlock just enjoys having his hair long and doesn't want to admit it. It hadn't taken him long to grow out the shorn curls when he returned home from being gone all those months, and he now resists going under the scissors like a child concerned that it's going to hurt.

It only serves to make him look more approachable, though, so John doesn't protest too hard. How could he, when not three nights ago he'd finally experienced what it felt like to hold that gorgeous body against him? Not for the first time since this case was thrust upon him, John lets himself get lost in memory for a few glorious seconds. Sherlock had been unusually hesitant but eager, exploring John's body thoroughly, and when John'd had the chance to press against him and take them both in hand... well. Already that particular moment has been revisited several times, and he fully expects that it will have a spot in the top ten best days of his life for as long as he lives.

A hand grips his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Lestrade standing less than a foot away. Considering that not two minutes ago Lestrade was listening to Sherlock rant while doing his best to write down every word the detective was spewing, John doesn't need to look around to experience a strong sinking feeling. "He's gone, hasn't he?" he asks, already resigned to the fact that his object of observation has made a break for it.

"Yep. Dashed out of here about a minute ago without stopping to listen to me, just like always," says Lestrade, flipping open his little notebook.

Damn. John shakes his head at his own stupidity. He should know better than to take his eyes off of Sherlock during a case. The idiot has the uncanny ability to know the exact second that John's attention wanders. It's like he purposely times his breakthroughs for that moment. This certainly isn't the first time Sherlock has taken off without him and it probably won't be the last, relationship or not. He sighs and reaches for his coat, pulling it on and doing the zip up. "I don't suppose you have any idea of where he's headed?"

"Aw, what's the matter Watson? Your boyfriend skip off without you?" Donovan asks, not bothering to hide her smirk. She seems to be torn between thinking the idea of Sherlock in a relationship is hilarious and thinking that John's stupid enough to have utterly taken in by a madman. Right now the former seems to be winning and John glares at her.

"Donovan, be professional," Lestrade snaps. "Come on, John. For once I actually think I know where he's going. He'll probably still get there first, but if we hurry we might not be too far behind."

Unlike Sherlock, John has no problems with getting into a police car and he accepts the ride gladly. After what feels like a solid day of running around the city his feet are aching, and it's a relief to just sit for a few minutes. If only he didn't have to worry about Sherlock getting himself killed, of course. He stares tensely out the window, gritting his teeth at every light they have to stop at. Even though Lestrade drives above the speed limit the whole way there, it still seems to take an age before they're pulling up outside of a corner store. John throws the door open and leaps out just in time to see Sherlock and a man come tumbling out the door, the two of them grappling like a couple of children.

"Oi, police!" Lestrade yells, jumping out of the car and slamming the door.

The sound startles the criminal, John can see it clearly just from the way the man jumps and his head snaps around. He tries to pull away from Sherlock, but it only elicits an even tighter grip from a determined Sherlock. The man swings back around and, balancing his weight on one leg, lifts his other leg and thrusts his knee straight between Sherlock's thighs with what looks like all of the force he can muster - and considering how desperate he is, that's a fair amount of force. John and Lestrade both grimace automatically as Sherlock's face flushes red, then goes completely white. He doesn't let go, though, holding on even as his legs begin to buckle from the pain overloading his senses.

Lestrade mutters a curse and strides forward, grabbing the criminal by the shoulders and easily prying him away from Sherlock. He spins the man around and forcibly slams him up against the nearest wall, apparently not caring that said wall is actually the store's window and that there are several fascinated customers watching from inside. As soon as he makes certain that Lestrade's got the man under control, John rushes over to his wounded partner. Sherlock is kneeling now, hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides, and John can tell at a glance that it's taking every modicum of self-control that Sherlock possesses to not grab at his genitals protectively.

"Jesus, are you okay?" he asks worriedly, crouching down. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, too busy taking slow, deep breaths. It doesn't seem to be helping judging by the faint green tinge sweeping up his cheeks. John shuffles a bit to the right, out of the way just in case, and places a hand against Sherlock's forehead. Cold and clammy, he notes, dropping his fingers to Sherlock's throat. His pulse is fast, too: there is no doubt in John's mind that Sherlock is probably in agony and doing everything he can to keep from humiliating himself further in front of strangers and the people he has to work with every day. How rapidly he keeps swallowing and blinking is a testament to how quickly he is losing the battle.

It doesn't help the situation in the least when Donovan lets out a grating snort. "I see you got your balls handed to you, freak," she says in a low tone, too quiet for anyone else to overhear. "Maybe that'll teach you to stop running off on your own. It's such a shame, though, seeing as how you get off on crime scenes. Guess you'll have to wait until next time to get your kicks."

"Shut up," John says.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Oh come on, Watson, you have to admit it's his own fault."

"Yeah," Anderson chimes in. He's only just arrived, but judging from the huge smirk on his face he's thoroughly enjoying what he's been able to catch. "Maybe this'll learn him to stop being such a -"

John does not give him the opportunity to finish that sentence. In one smooth movement he stands up, squaring his shoulders, and says nothing: he just stares, allowing the expression on his face to speak for him.

Slowly the gawping grin on Anderson's face shrinks, replaced by a pallor that is not unlike the one Sherlock is currently sporting. Without a word he abruptly turns and walks away, his shoulders stiff like he's expecting someone to come up behind him and attack. Even Donovan looks a little uncertain, her eyes darting between John and Sherlock like she can't decide if the risk is worth it. She proves that she possess an ounce of intelligence when she chooses to remain silent and follow Anderson.

"Fuckers," John mutters under his breath, turning back to Sherlock. The man hasn't moved or even given any indication he acknowledged what Donovan and Anderson were saying. Gently, John rests his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Come on, you've got to get up. You don't want to do this here, believe me. I know it hurts, but you've only got to walk as far as the street and from there we can get a cab -"

He keeps on talking, rambling really, but it works: he's able to coax Sherlock into standing. It takes a couple of minutes before Sherlock can fully straighten, and his legs tremble so badly he'd end up back on the ground were it not for John's arm around his waist, but they make it. Lestrade flags down a cab for them so there's already one waiting by the time they get there. John shoots him a grateful look and lets Sherlock get in first, not missing the flinch or soft exhalation when Sherlock makes impact with the seat. He and Lestrade share a grimace before John climbs in and shuts the door behind him. He casts a concerned look at Sherlock, huddled into the corner, before addressing the cabbie.

"221b Baker Street, please, and fast."

The only sound beyond the radio is that of Sherlock's strained breathing as he fights to work through the pain overloading his system. John counts the minutes until the cab finally pulls up in front of the flat. He tosses a handful of bills in the front seat and helps Sherlock to slide out, already knowing that the stairs are going to be difficult. He's right. Halfway up, Sherlock loses the fight and doubles over. He grips his midsection, one hand sliding lower in a way John pretends he doesn't notice, and throws up all over the stairs. Because he hasn't eaten in so long, not much other than bile and coffee comes up.

"Oh god, Sherlock." Even though pity is the last thing Sherlock probably wants, John can't help it. He hovers until Sherlock is finished choking and spitting, and only then does he lift the detective to his feet and help him to stagger up the last few steps. Sherlock sinks against him like putty, head lolling, as John shuffles them both over to the sofa and eases him down.

"I'm fine," he says, the first words he's spoken since it happened.

"Like hell you are. I saw how hard he hit you. Hard enough to potentially leave lasting damage." He winces a bit, memories from the war briefly seeping through his mind. There had been more than one man who would never have the opportunity to enjoy sex again thanks to a poorly aimed bullet or piece of shrapnel. Sherlock's wound won't be nearly so serious, of course, but he can admit that his desire to make sure there's no permanent damage isn't entirely selfless. He's been dreaming about replicating that night with Sherlock every hour since it happened; the thought of it only being a one-time deal thanks to some idiotic criminal is nearly more than he can bear.

"I'm_ fine_," Sherlock says firmly, as though saying it a second time is going to make it magically true.

"No, you're not. I know there's no sense in trying to coax you into going to the hospital, so I'll have to look at you myself."

"Absolutely not." The response is swift and firm, and Sherlock pulls his legs up onto the sofa like he's worried that John's going to leap on him and start trying to pry his trousers open. The additional pressure must hurt, though, because he winces immediately and lets his legs fall open.

"I'm your doctor, Sherlock. It's what we do," John points out. "I'm not going to see anything I haven't seen before, right?"

Instantly he knows it's the wrong thing to say, judging by how quickly Sherlock's expression closes off. Admittedly, the room had been fairly dark that night. John was in bed already, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, when the door was pushed open and Sherlock crept in to join him in the bed. Most of John's memories are composed of touch and taste and smell and sound, not sight. He'd not thought much about it before, but now as he studies the look on Sherlock's face he starts to wonder if there's more to it than that. Perhaps the timing had not been as coincidental as he'd assumed - and what had he been thinking, this is Sherlock Holmes, of course it wasn't.

He softens his tone, spreading his hands and adjusting his posture so as to look less threatening. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know that. I just want to make sure that medical intervention isn't necessary. Sometimes this sort of thing can do a lot more damage than people realize. I've seen that happen before, and I'd really not see you go through losing one or both testicles." He can't suppress his grimace this time, and Sherlock eyes him.

"Alright," he concludes after a long, sulky silence, and it's spoken in just the right tone to make it clear that he's not thrilled about this. John hides a smile and stands by patiently while Sherlock slowly unbuckles his belt and undoes the zip on his trousers. He shifts his hips and pushes his trousers down around his thighs, revealing the cotton boxers he's wearing underneath. Familiar boxers.

"Are those mine?" John asks incredulously.

"Mine were dirty," Sherlock says. "We had sex. I didn't think you'd mind."

"I..." John shuts his mouth, because what is the point? Apparently having sex with Sherlock Holmes means giving him permission to steal your underwear, who knew. He shakes his head, more amused than he wants to let on, and says, "Spread your legs a bit more and pull your shirt up. There you go. Now hold still, okay?" He refrains from making a comment about how difficult it usually is for Sherlock to remain still for any length of time and crouches down.

Right away he can tell that the penis and testicles are swollen, though not as badly as he might have expected. Bruising is beginning to show up along the curve of Sherlock's pubic bone, spreading up the thin line of hair into his lower midsection. That bloke might have only got off one shot, he'd made it a damn good one. As gently as possible John probes the flesh of Sherlock's belly and genitals, feeling for anything that doesn't seem right. Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath at the initial contact and goes very still, but other than that he does not speak - he does start blinking again, though. John makes the examination as quick as possible, resolutely ignoring the fact that this is not at all how he thought he would come to be on his knees in front of Sherlock.

"Well, Doctor? Will I live?" Sherlock asks at last. He's watching John's every move very closely, but the aura of suspicion has slowly been sliding away to be replaced by curiosity. He always like watching John do medical work, and considering the stunts he sometimes pulls he gets the opportunity to do so a lot.

John smiles. "Yes, I expect so. Everything looks alright, though I'll have to monitor you over the next few hours just to be sure. You can pull your pants back up. I'll see what we have that can double as an icepack. It will take the swelling down faster and help to alleviate the pain. Do you want a couple of paracetamol? I think we've got some left."

"Alright."

If that's not an indication to how poorly he's feeling, John doesn't know what is: Sherlock only accepts a pill when the pain is sufficient enough to cloud his mind, something he loathes. John hurries into the kitchen and pokes through the freezer, unsurprised to find that they have nothing to act as an icepack. Or at least, nothing sanitary. He leaves two pills and a glass of water with Sherlock and heads down to Mrs Hudson's, detouring just long enough to clean up the vomit on the stairs.

She's out, a blessing considering the questions she'd no doubt have, but John finds a frozen bag of peas that will work quite nicely. He gets back upstairs to find that Sherlock's pulled his boxers back up but disregarded the trousers entirely. John takes it as a good sign, unable to stop the foolish swell of pleasure at the realization that Sherlock is losing, if not over, his embarrassment. He hands the peas over and watches as Sherlock gingerly sets them down between his thighs. It will take a few minutes for the cold to actually assuage the pain, and in the meantime Sherlock's discomfort is evident. His face is set into another sulky pout and, were he able to move, he'd likely be pacing around the flat.

"Budge up," John says fondly, sitting down on the sofa beside him. Leaning back against the cushions allows him to wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist and coax him to lean back as well, until his head is cushioned on John's shoulder. John begins to run his fingers through those lovely dark curls, and while their relationship may be new this is not. He'd discovered how much Sherlock enjoys having his hair petted the one time the man had got sick. Feverish and coughing, unable to settle down long enough to rest, John had taken to stroking his hair until he relaxed enough to fall asleep.

"Press harder," Sherlock mumbles.

John obliges, fingertips massaging the scalp and seeking out the spots that make Sherlock's eyes half-close with pleasure. He's still tense, but he's curling more into John now. "Maybe next time you'll know better than to take off without me. It's one thing to leave without telling Lestrade, but you told me you wouldn't do that anymore."

For a few seconds there is a telling silence that indicates Sherlock forgot, and John waits patiently. Finally, "I'm sorry. I got wrapped up in the case and I wanted to get there to stop him before he got away again."

"I know you did. That's the only reason I'm not mad." Well, maybe not the only reason. If nothing else, a good kick to the bollocks is a better reminder to stop running off than a stern lecture could ever be, even though he would have preferred it not happen where Scotland Yard could see. And Sherlock is as excellent an actor at this as he is at everything else: he knows exactly how to tug at John's heartstrings by painting just the right amount of vulnerability across his face. John has no doubt that at least part of this, here on the sofa together, is Sherlock encouraging him to forget his anger through tactile response. He's not nearly as clever as he thinks sometimes.

"You're_ not_ mad?"

"Well, maybe a little." He turns his head, accidentally brushing his lips across Sherlock's temple, and both of them freeze. This quiet little act seems infinitely intimate and for a moment John thinks that's it, he's ruined everything and scared Sherlock off.

Sherlock tips his chin and watches him from the corner of his eye, and then he says cautiously, "But you'll get over it." And even though it's not a question, that's what it sounds like.

"As long as you stop being so stupid." John lets himself relax because Sherlock hasn't pulled away, seems to be more interested in observing him like he's a fascinating specimen under his microscope. Maybe that's all he'll ever get, maybe someday it'll be more, he doesn't know.

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